


Commit It To Memory

by will413



Category: Cinderella (1950), Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-06 15:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will413/pseuds/will413
Summary: A storm wakes Cinderella, who finds herself in a strange room.





	Commit It To Memory

It was a night of cold rain in the middle of a mild summer. The wind whistled and howled. Raindrops drummed insistently against the exterior of the castle. These things worried at Cinderella’s sleep, but they did not break it. 

But the thunder shook the air, time after time, closer and closer, until it cracked furiously right outside her bedroom. Cinderella was ripped from sleep, sitting up, gasping, eyes searching through the darkness, trying to orient herself. 

She could find no points of reference, but the confusion faded as the rhythmic patter of rain calmed her. The next roll of thunder helped her identify what had woken her. 

Her confusion mounted again as she took in her surroundings. She wasn't in her room. Her room was tiny, drafty, and humble. This room was large and magnificent. The bed she’d been sleeping on was so soft and warm and luxurious. She was wrapped in silk, with a pillow full of goose down, in a room with flashing glints of real gold. 

But the biggest sign that she was not supposed to be here? She saw a man in her bed. She saw the prince in her bed. She saw that she had somehow gotten into the bed of the prince. She had somehow gotten into the room of the prince. 

How could this have happened? It was miles away, not a fit journey to sleepwalk! 

The rain continued to hammer against the windowpanes, and the occasional lightning strike lit up the room, followed immediately by another round of thunder that rattled her. 

There was no way she would be able to return home before her stepmother noticed she was gone. It was a dangerous enough journey without it being nighttime and without the inclement weather.

She couldn't escape her stepmother noticing her absence. So, she already started thinking about the punishments she could face when they were face-to-face again. It wouldn't matter what Cinderella's intentions had been. It wouldn't matter whose fault it was. It wouldn't matter if she begged and pleaded. Cinderella was sure to be covered with red marks, and she began bracing herself for that setback into the upcoming week.

Slightly more urgently, the prince might wake up and notice her here. It was one thing to be missing all night, leaving her stepmother to assume the worst. It was quite another to be discovered having snuck into the castle, upstairs, into the prince’s room. To be discovered lying in the prince’s bed inches away from his handsome face. Her mouth was filled with the taste of fear, panic rising high in the throat. 

No matter what her stepmother thought, there were other people in the world besides her, and some of them were more powerful, and some of them were scarier. She might be in worse trouble if someone here discovered what she'd gotten herself into.

She needed the way back home, and she needed to move along it as soon as possible, without being spotted. Even if she did get spotted, she preferred if it happened when she had more distance between herself and the prince. Lying in his bed was too compromising a position to bear. 

She could try to tell them that she had sleepwalked, but they absolutely would not believe her. It was an excuse a thousand times too fantastic for anyone else to believe. A strange sorrow roiled in her stomach. She didn't choose to break into this place, but she'd have to deal with the blame anyway. 

She might not be able to reach her home before sunrise. But she needed to start, and she needed to put some distance between herself and the prince already. 

She was still in the bed. It was a very soft and warm and inviting bed. It was hardly surprising that her sleepwalking travels should bring her to the embrace of this bed. It seemed almost to beg you to lie awhile and sleep in it, and she obviously must have surrendered even while unconscious.

As for the prince, slumbering peacefully on the other side of the bed... She allowed herself one last look at him. His face made funny things happen in her heart. She knew that she knew nothing about him. He was a stranger to her, and they had never spoken before. All the same, she found she wanted to kiss him. Yet, what a horrible thing that would be! Shaking her head, she finally rose, feet touching the impressive Oriental rug. She was intent on getting herself out of this mess. 

She strode purposefully and silently across the room. She easily pulled the door open, anticipating how to angle her arm so that it came open with a soundless glide. Her determination carried her forward for several more steps, before she realized that she knew the path to take. 

She stopped, paralyzed with a sudden, overwhelming flood of memories. She knew the layout of the castle, a place she'd never been to before. Except that she had been there before. She had lived there for months. She had married the prince. She was the princess. 

This was her home. That had been her husband. Her stepmother no longer had power over her. 

Cinderella stood still, in the center of the hallway, staring down at her feet, struggling to process the reversal of her world, even though it was a kind reversal. She stood there a long time, unsure what to do. 

She wasn't going to return to the house in which she had endured such pain. She couldn't turn around and crawl back into bed and hold tightly to her prince. That felt like giving up. She had built up momentum. She needed to take this and do something. She knew that there was a better thing to be doing, but she didn't know what. 

Lacking for any better options, she decided on visiting the kitchens for a midnight snack. On her way there, she met several people, servants whose faces she recognized but whose names were half-recollected. A light guilt tickled at her smile of greeting, and the jamais vu was dizzying and making her headache worse. 

They questioned her, and tried to anticipate what she might need, and cheerfully suggested things they could do for her. All of them offered to escort her down to the kitchens, but she refused them all. 

She descended, step by tired step, down the marble staircase, all alone. She only dared to touch the banister, her hand looking so small and delicate upon it that it broke her own heart. 

Finally, she arrived at the kitchens. The cook had already been awakened, warned that the princess was hungry. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he tied his apron around his back one-handed. Another servant was tossing extra charcoal into the reddish glow of the stove. The three candles sitting on the table weren’t quite enough to cook by, but they were plenty to converse by, and the room was growing brighter. 

“Your Highness, what’ll it be?” the cook asked her. 

Cinderella was silent. She didn’t know. She didn’t want anything. Her eyes were drawn to the glowing coals, though, and the ashes they shed. The air was still, and memories were making it difficult to breathe. 

She looked away from the ashes and tried again to think of something. To her surprise, her hunger wasn’t ignored, it was nonexistent. Her hand went to her stomach, and the fuller figure proved that she really wasn’t going hungry anymore. 

She was completely at a loss, and with no other ideas, she asked meekly for a glass of water. 

Extinguishing the burning coals, the cook and helper provided her with a tall glass of the cleanest water in the kingdom, and returned again to their quarters to sleep. 

Cinderella took a seat at the grand dinner table. It was the long one they usually only used for parties with lots of guests. She sat on the plump cushion of the exceedingly well-crafted chair. She sipped her cold and clear water. She looked up at her home with new eyes. She had gotten accustomed to it, to the forms in day’s light and night’s shadow. This night’s shadows were no more concealing than any other night. But, while the appearance matched how it always looked, there was a different feeling in the air, as she took in the dark, murky shapes. 

She drank the last drop of her water, and a servant entered the room, having evidently stood watching her and waiting for this moment. He collected the empty glass from her before she could have a second to process the need to return it. 

She still didn’t quite want to go back to bed. She felt too antsy and restless, even despite her heavy eyelids. But she could think of nothing else to do. 

On the long, slow journey back to the room, carrying a candle with her this time, she hoped that something would come along, asking for her attention. But as she ascended the staircase, nothing came along. 

She arrived at her room once more, and opened the door. Her husband was still sound asleep. She didn’t join him, but went to her wardrobe. She opened it, and looked through the dresses, admiring them by her candlelight. There were so many dresses, and they were all so fancy, and they were all hers, just like she’d always wanted. Tracing her finger along the seams of the fabric, she mentally recounted the occasions of each dress. She remembered the balls she had worn these dresses to, and the horse races, and the festivals.

Finally, she crawled back into bed. She joined the unbelievably soft mattress and her unbelievably dreamy husband, and cuddled up to him. He patted her arm in his sleep, and pressed his nose into her hair, kissing her temple. Cinderella sighed into relaxation, and closed her eyes, and let herself fall asleep. 

As the prince went about his usual princely business the next morning, he had a series of servants telling him of what they had seen. It wasn’t until almost noon that he had a minute with which to speak to his wife. 

He spoke to her, alone, at the top of the stairs, in the five minutes before they were fetched for lunch. 

“I heard you had trouble sleeping last night,” he said, kindly, in a low, confidential tone. 

Cinderella was silent, hesitant. She was looking down and away, biting her lip embarrassedly. One arm was holding the balustrade and the other was coming in front, an unconscious gesture to shield the rest of her body. She had nothing to say to the accusation. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, putting all his warmth into his voice. 

His wife couldn’t always remember the power and influence they both had. He knew this. His wife was determined not to forget her place, to the point that she could not remember her new place. He knew this, too. He married his wife because he loved her. And because he loved her, he would love to help her in any way he could. And because they were married, and because he was royalty, he had lots of ways he could help. 

The next week, they sat for a royal portrait they had commissioned. Across the next several weeks, they commissioned even more. Dozens of paintings began to fill the hall outside their bedroom. They held each other as though in the middle of the waltz where they fell in love. They held the pose until their legs ached and they had to sit. Yet, unfazed by the ache, Cinderella brought her chair over to admire the progress of the painting. She had such an enthusiastic grin as she took in the details thus far established. Charming fell even further in love with her, and forgave her for his stiff and aching limbs. 

That was the one they hung across from the bed. Even more cluttered the hall, and spread down the stairwell. No matter the rush of adrenaline, or the crack of thunder, it filled your vision if you sat up in bed. And, should the candle burn all the way out, and the room be pitch black, the hallway still could not let their life together be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Saying "Cinderella with PTSD" feels very silly, but considering her past and her future, it makes sense to me. The opening of Cinderella 3, with all those paintings crowded together? I got the idea for this, and I felt something. I hope you feel something, too.


End file.
